


Whatever You Want

by elle_stone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, MWPP Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:51:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is sixteen years old and itching for a break out; every second of the day he forms plans that he could never carry out, waiting for the moment when courage finally floods through him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever You Want

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the summer of 2007 for prompt number 10, climbing trees, at the barefootboys community on livejournal.

He’s dreaming. Or possibly remembering. It’s early morning, and in the hazy light through the window, it’s impossible to tell.

James and Peter and Remus, suntanned with summer, running to catch a big black dog, all four spotted with the sun coming through the leaves of the trees. He can almost feel the wind rushing past him.

Someone is pounding on his door. “Sirius,” a voice whines. It is high-pitched, annoyingly so, and insistent. Fists against the door won’t open it, and Sirius refuses to answer.

He is letting his mind wander.

First day of first year. He remembers running across the lawn, down the slope of the hill to the lake, stripping off his too-big new shoes and too-white new socks just as he gets to the tree reaching out its branches over the water. And with Potter and Lupin and Pettigrew all watching, he climbs easily up to the third branch, wrestles his Gryffindor tie from his neck, and tosses it carelessly into the lake. 

“You’re a Gryffindor whether you like it or not,” James yells up to him. He is completely unimpressed. Just standing there, waiting patiently for Sirius to come back down. And maybe he knows right then that James is going to be his best friend. He knows a couple of things about Remus, too, from the way he fishes the tie back out of the lake, and about Peter, from the way he watches Sirius in careful silence for the rest of the afternoon. Even so. He doesn’t come down right away.

The view from the branches comes back to him now: a wide expanse, a domain he would conquer, beauty he would never see surpassed.

“Sirius! Breakfast!”

The words come to his ears through the door, spoken as if it were the most important message ever relayed. Sirius doesn’t bother to reply.

He is busy wishing he were somewhere else.

Remus is smiling at him, saying, “My parents won’t let me climb trees.” Eleven years old—something nervous about his eyes—Sirius finds him twitchy and a little too awkward for comfort. He asks why not and Remus answers, “They’re over-protective.”

This, of course, before his secret was told. Still, Sirius drags him up into the branches, and they wrap themselves in the colors of the setting sun. “Your parents aren’t here,” Sirius tells him. “You can do whatever you want.”

“Sirius! Mum’s going to get angry!”

It’s his most convincing argument thus far. Sirius opens his eyes carefully, letting in the sunlight, the view. There is a motorcycle on his wall, completely stationary on its page, still taunting. He watches it for several moments, as if willing it to move, willing it to move right into his bedroom and carry him away, and while he watches, Regulus waits impatiently on the other side of the door. There is another scattered fury of fists against the wood.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Sirius grumbles, and drags himself wearily to his feet. His brain is still addled with sleep. He is sixteen years old and itching for a break out; every second of the day he forms plans that he could never carry out, waiting for the moment when courage finally floods through him.

Regulus is still waiting for him when he opens the door. His arms are crossed against his chest and his face is set in an unflattering frown. Sirius knocks him ungraciously out of the way as he heads down the hall. “I hate you,” Regulus calls half-heartedly after him, but Sirius is already at the head of the stairs and he just answers, “Right back at you,” and goes down.

Later, he stands in front of the family tree and carefully traces his finger up its branches, farther and farther and farther, past all of the burn marks and over the flowing script of his ancestors’ names. His own name is at the bottom. He traces over it, too, and wonders when it will happen, when his mother will finally scorch it into nothing more than a dark smudge on the wall. He almost wants it to happen. He almost wants to start completely over again. And he thinks better sooner than later. And he thinks this is it—this could be it. And he realizes his decision is made.


End file.
